ABSORBED BY -Poetry

 ABSORBED BY

Sadness, the loss of a day.

Sadness, do go away.

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Absorbed by

Stephanie Daich

THE BEGGAR -Poetry

 THE BEGGAR

Of me, he begs; of you, he begs.

His cardboard sign swings over his head.

GIVE ME FOOD, OR I'LL BE DEAD

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_The Beggar

by Stephanie Daich

REVOLUTIONIZE THE SPREAD OF INFORMATION -Poetry

 Revolutionize the Spread of Information

O printing press, o Printing press

A form of knowledge dissemination

O printing press, o Printing press

The spreading of information

Not only did you revolutionize

Your power opened the political eye

O printing press, o Printing press

A form of knowledge dissemination

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Revolutionize the Spread of Information

by Stephanie Daich

Dare -Poetry

Dare 

He did it on a dare

He did it because he thought you’d care

He used no logic

As he made himself sick

He took a stupid chance

His image to enhance

He didn’t use his head

And sadly now his dreams are dead

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Dare

by Stephanie Daich

SECOND CHANCE -Speculative Fiction

  SECOND CHANCE

 

I thought I wanted it. Wow, I was wrong.

"Welcome to Second Chances," the popular game show host Rodney said. He flashed his exaggerated smile. The hum of the audience vibrated against my sternum.

My head spun in dizziness, and I gripped the podium to avoid falling over.

"As you all know, the winner of our trivia round will have an opportunity at their second chance."

Nerd-man to the right looked like he could spout out the answers to any question, probably a walking encyclopedia. Homemaker to the left seemed as clueless as a yappy poodle.

Rodney rubbed his hands together. The smell of his aftershave distracted me. "Let's not waste any time." He proceeded to pelt us with question after question. Nerd-man knew his stuff, but my quick reflexes kept me at an advantage. Homemaker just giggled, never once answering a question. My dry tongue made the answers come out in a stutter. Just as I thought I might blackout, the trivia round ended.

"We want to thank all of you for your efforts, but we can only have one winner. Jaque and Herman are at a tie. This next question is for them and will determine the winner."

Jaque adjusted his pocket protector. I cracked my knuckles.

"Are you guys ready?"

I tried to speak but only croaked.

Nerd-man pulled at his collar. "Give it to me."

Rodney stared at us, building suspense. "German kids wear what around their necks at New Year for good luck?"

Nerd-man hit his buzzard quicker than I could process the question. A heaviness pulled at my neck. Nerd-man hadn't gotten any answers wrong. He had won.

"They wear advent wreaths."

"Oh," Rodney's voice elevated, then dropped. "I am sorry. You are wrong." Rodney stood directly in front of me. "Herman, you have a chance to steal the question for the win. What do German kids wear around their necks for good luck?"

"Pretzels!" Memories of my time in Germany had saved me.

"Oh, I am sorry," he said, dropping the corners of his mouth into a frown.

I had gotten it right. Prickles of anger tormented me.

Rodney shook his head. "Jaque, the game is over." Rodney faced the crowd. His voice bubbled in excitement. "Congratulations, Herman! It is time for your second chance. What will it be?"

I stood with my arms around my stomach, not processing I had won.

"Herman, wipe that glumness off your face. You have won! What will your second chance be?"

I shrugged.

Then it hit me. I won!

I WON!

"Surely you thought about your second chance before you came on the show. Is there an ex-girlfriend you want to be reunited with? Is there a job you feel you were unjustly fired from? How about the trip you never took?"

I felt like a duffer as I tried to come up with something good. "I can only think of something impractical."

"Perfect, we love a challenge. What is it?"

The studio lights burned into my skin. I stuck my hands into my stiff pockets. "Well, I have always spent my life wishing my dad hadn't taken the job in Germany during my high school year."

"Ah, but if you hadn't lived in Germany, you might have lost the winning question. Please tell us why you wish for that."

"Well, I was popular before we moved." Why did I say such a stupid thing on national TV? I couldn't stop the words spuing out of my mouth, turning me into a shmo.

"The kids in Germany were cruel. I was so lonely in high school." Had I just said that? Great! The next time I saw the guys at work, they would crucify me.

"Alright! Let's do it. Let's give you your second chance!"

Balloons and confetti dropped from the ceiling. Cheesy music played. Was Rodney going to dig up my friends from junior high? That was fifteen years ago. Did I want that?

I stumbled out of the studio, unsure what my prize would be. I brushed confetti from my shirt.

"You made yourself into a fool," I mumbled.

With my head still spinning, I went to Carla's Carbonara to meet my girlfriend for lunch. I waited for over an hour. When I tried calling her, I went straight to voicemail.

She had stood me up.

"Great, she watched the gameshow and is embarrassed by me." I didn't blame her. Even though we had only dated for two months, I knew I wanted to marry her. "You probably blew that."

Dejected, I went to my apartment at Arlington Heights, but my key wouldn't open the door.

"What do you mean you have no record of me as a tenant?" I asked the property manager. "I have lived here two years. I have never been late on rent."

The manager slid back in his chair. He smelt like a Polish hotdog. "I am sorry, we have no record of Herman Spendlove."

I shoved my chair across the office. "You will be hearing from my lawyer."

I jammed my elbow into the crowd at the metro, receiving dirty stares and angry remarks. I didn't care. How could the apartment complex steal my things? Acidic urine permeated the stank air.

After a fifteen-minute walk, I flung my grandma's front door opened and stomped into the house.

"Grandma! Grandma! You have to help me. Arlington Heights stole my things!"

My grandma scratched her head as her eyebrows lowered. "What are you talking about?"

"They locked me out of my apartment."

"When did you get an apartment?"

"What are you talking about?"

Grandma clapped her hands as her eyes widened and her worry wrinkle smoothed. "I am so glad you finally found an apartment. It is time you moved out!" Grandma came at me with a hug that sucked me into her folds. She left a sticky film on my face. “By the way, you look great in that polo, and I am so glad you finally got a haircut.”

"Grandma, you are confusing me." I rubbed the corner of my shirt across my sticky cheek.

Her face clouded as she seemed as disoriented as me. "Just let me know what I can do to help you pack your things. Meanwhile, a package came for you today. I put it on your bed."

"My bed?"

Grandma pointed toward the hall. "Yeah, I put the package on your bed."

I walked through the hall to the spare bedroom. I hadn't slept there since I was a kid.

The spare bedroom had changed. It had always been a sparse room with only a bed and desk. Now the room looked occupied with pictures on the wall, a dresser lined with knickknacks, a shelf sagging from books, and a closet filled with clothes.

I went back to the kitchen. Grandma pulled a casserole dish out of the stove, and I recognized the smell of her meatloaf. Too bad I had already eaten my lonely lunch. I probably could make room for her home cooking.

"Did someone move in?" I asked, eyeing the dish as she removed a layer of tinfoil. Steam rose around my grandma, and my stomach growled.

"Just you and me, kid."

My grandma noticed the desire for her meatloaf on my face and raised her hand. "Don't touch. This is for my bridge club." She turned her back to me, so I returned to the spare room.

I didn't recognize the cheap clothes in the closet. The pictures on the wall were foreign to me, especially the one of my mom embracing a strange man.

I returned to the kitchen. "Grandma, obviously someone is living in your spare bedroom. Who is it?"

Grandma narrowed her eyes. "Can I get you some tea?"

My words exploded. "Who is living in the spare bedroom?"

"Just you. What is going on with you today, Herman?" Grandma pulled a cloth from the drawer and wettened it at the sink. She brought it to my head, but I pushed her hand away.

"Herman!"

"I just don't understand. What is going on?"

"You are scaring me. Why don't you sit down? Are you on drugs again?"

Again?

"I have never done drugs in my life."

Grandma slammed her hand against the counter. "Oh, you can't do this to me again. I can't go down this path with you again. You have had sobriety for almost two years."

Tears ran down my grandma's reddened cheeks. She paced in a figure-eight. "I can't. I can't. Oh, Herman. Why? Why?"

My arms went numb. I had no answer for anything going on. My grandma's feet thumped as she entered her room, then returned holding her purse. "I will be back. I need to talk to the pastor."

"Grandma?"

She poked her head back into the kitchen. "And don't touch the meatloaf."

I stood in my spot long after Grandma left. Finally, I returned to the spare bedroom with nothing else to do.

I explored the knickknacks on the dresser, then rummaged through the bookshelf. At the bottom, I found three-year books for Arlington High, the high school I had desperately wished I had attended. I opened the first one and then fainted.

When I came to, I leafed through the pages.

There I was in all three yearbooks. I looked scruffier and harder each year.

"I don't get this. This isn't me. I hadn't gone to Arlington High." I had wanted to, but we had moved to Germany.

Rodney's words played in my head. "Alright! Let's do it. Let's give you your second chance!"

Had I gotten my second chance?

I pulled out a photo album from my elementary years, not seen since I had moved to Germany. I opened it and watched the progression of my life at Arlington High. There were pictures of the friends I so desperately missed. It troubled me how our appearances changed. We went from clean-cut kids to angry, dark-looking teens. On the opposite page of my high school graduation, I saw a newspaper article about my dad's death.

"Joseph Michael Spendlove, age 44, died at the scene."

"Dad is dead!"

My muscles constricted my organs, and I couldn't breathe or move.

"Dad is dead!"

What else would I discover about my life in the pages? My countenance changed in the pictures, and I seemed to carry a dark cloud as an aura. Progressively captured through pictures, my bones sharpened as I lost weight and appeared gaunt. I found another newspaper article listing two of my friends as suspects in a murder.

And then I came to my mom's wedding pictures.

Pictures of my mom celebrating her union with another man.

A man that wasn't my dad.

I chucked the album across the room. It burst apart, spilling pictures on the green shag carpet. I ran to the bathroom and puked. When it felt like I had ripped open my esophagus from such violent puking, I stumbled into the spare bedroom and lay down.

Heat burned from my core. Sweat drenched my polo.

As I lay there, I looked up at the closet. Several McDonald's uniforms hung in a crumpled mess of wrinkles.

"I work at McDonald's!"

I shook my head. "I don't work at McDonald's. I work at the Pentagon." I lifted my hip and grabbed my wallet. I searched for my security clearance card but didn't find it. Also, my stack of credit cards was gone. It wasn't even my wallet, except for my photo on the pathetic-looking state ID.

I curled in a ball and hit the wall, bringing a throbbing to my hand that moved into my wrist.

"This can't be. This has to be a dream."

I straightened my legs and knocked the package off the bed.

The plastic crinkled as I picked it up. I opened the mylar bag and out tumbled a paperweight with words etched into it.

"Congratulations on your second chance!"

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Second Change

by Stephanie Daich

Hiding Amelia -Flash Fiction

  Hiding Amelia

I bring her on the rig to hide her. Legally, she’s mine, but I don’t know if they can take her from me.

Amelia’s hair traps the smell of pine freshener and Armor-All. How did Grace keep those rat nests out of our five-year-old’s hair, anyways?

Amelia munches on the truck stop-hot dog; grease and ketchup drip down her chin and make a mess of the seat. The failing shocks bounce Amelia up and down like an amusement ride. In an hour, she will cry from the gassy belly she will have. Truck stop-hot dogs. -not exactly the diet to sustain the growth of a young child.

“I’m tired. I wanna go home.”

“You can take a nap on the bed.”

“No,” she screams.

The novelty of the bed has run its course. At first, she never wanted to come out of the sleeper. Now I can’t get her to go in it.

“I want Mommy.”

As do I.

I slam my brakes for the reckless driver. Amelia’s body flies forward, barely restrained by the oversized belt. The road is no place for a five-year-old girl stuck in the company of a newly widowed bachelor.

My mind flashes to Steve showing up at Grace’s funeral. I didn’t expect him there. I had always wondered if he and Grace had been more than friends. But nothing could prepare me for what he did. Steve slipped an envelope in my hand as he walked out of the funeral parlor. Talk about tacky. Couldn’t he have picked another time, any other time except the day I buried my wife?

I now sit in the cab of the truck. Four hours have passed since I lost Amelia in the truck stop. Should I call the cops? I pull Steve’s letter out of my pocket. I have looked at it a thousand times. The DNA test matches Steve as Amelia’s biological father.

I jump from the pounding on the cab and open the door to the lot lizard.

“Pete, I found your daughter,” she says, handing Amelia to me. Amelia wraps her sooty arms around me and sobs.

“Thanks.” I hand the lot lizard a hundred.

“Listen, this is no place to raise a little girl.”

“I know, but this is how I don’t lose her.”

“If you keep her trucking, then this is how you’ll lose her.”

I can’t lose her.

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Hiding Amelia

by Stephanie Daich

PRIDE IN MY FAMILY -Fiction

 Pride in My Family

The moment you believe them, you don't appreciate what you have. I hadn't realized I had a strange family until kindergarten. After that, my family's oddness seemed to increase with each passing school year.

"Mom, why is our family different?" I asked in second grade.

"Because our family is full of love." Her answer didn't make me feel better.

By then, I had noticed most of the kids in school came from small families. The typical family size was one to three members. No one had a monstrously large family like ours: One mom, one dad, and eleven kids. Yup, we were that huge. We couldn't fit in an average car, traveling everywhere in a used Baptist bus. Do you know how it feels being dropped off at friends' parties in a rusty bus while everyone else comes in compact, environmentally friendly cars? The word humiliated is not a strong enough verb.

But that wasn't the only thing that made us stand out. Oh, no. We were a "rainbow family," as Mom liked to call us. Each member of our family came from a different country. Dad was Egyptian, Mom a New Zealander, my oldest sister was Guatemalan, and so on. We were all rescues from orphanages or the Department of Child Services. My brother Tommy was as mean as the neighbor's illegal fighting Pitbull. I am pretty sure Mom found Tommy in a garbage can.

Even Mom and Dad had started their lives as orphans.

Everywhere we went, our large rainbow family stood out. How could we not, in our predominately Jewish neighborhood?

The more I noticed our differences, the more I wanted to run away.

I still remember the day that changed my heart. My fifth-grade teacher stood before the class with the enthusiasm of a yappy dog barking at their shadow. "Our school procured a fabulous grant that I cannot wait to tell you about."

"What do I care about Grant?" I thought and picked up my book Charm and Strange by Stephanie Kuehn. I loved a good mystery. I could be a private detective one day. I would confidently walk into a crime scene like a Doberman Pinscher, commanding the attention of all around. Then, even more brilliantly, I would...

"Cedella," the teacher said. I looked up. Her hands rested on her hips, and she had that teacher look; cross and disappointed.

I stared. What did she want?

"Cedella, let me repeat the question. Do you know what race you are?"

I slumped in my chair. Why would the teacher ask me that in front of the class? I darted my eyes around the room. Yup, I was the only dark-skinned student in there. At least the teacher was dark like me.

"I am black," I whispered.

A few kids giggled.

"That isn't your race, stupid," Heather said as her red braids swayed back and forth.

"Now, Heather, let's not call names." The teacher turned to me. Her voice softened to kindness.

"Do you know your bloodline? Black is an adjective, not a race."

My eyes dropped to my lap. I was already a freak. Why did she have to point it out?

"I know my race," Heather said. Her declarative statement came out snappy and short. "I am Irish."

"Irish is a good race," my teacher said. She smiled at Heather and then turned to the class.

"Most of us don't know where we came from. So how do we know where to go? As I was saying, the grant given to us will give all of you a chance to discover your heritage. In other words, what races you are made up of. Consider it a mystery. One in which you uncover the secrets of your ancestors."

"Ohh," came the death moans of many of my classmates. I, too, might have sulked with them if the teacher hadn't said the word that had hooked me.

"Mystery."

I loved mysteries. Besides, maybe I should discover where I came from.

That night, the entire family gathered together. That usually only happened for weddings or funerals.

"Gather family, gather," I called out as my family assembled into our too-tight family room. I clapped my hands and jumped up and down as I tried to contain my excitement. The smell of Mom's meat pie still hung in the air, and I wished there had been enough to make me full. What took everyone so long?

The family slowly entered, a few siblings mumbling under their breath.

"Hello, hello," I said. "Please sit."

"Why do you look like a dork?" Angelica, my fifteen-year-old sister, asked.

"Oh, this?" I said as my hand passed over my trench coat and top hat. They had a plasticky feel to them. Too bad they weren't real leather. "My name is Detective Cedella, and I have a mystery to solve."

-More grumbles.

I began, imagining myself with the lead part in a play. "Long time ago, in a faraway land, each of us was born. But who are we, really? Some of us know little about our biological parents, and some of us don't even know what culture we are."

Brandon, my nine-year-old brother, bowed his head and looked at his lap. He had Asian features, but no one knew his race. He hated that.

I paced back and forth, my face emotionless, playing the part of a big-time detective.

"I will pass out my top-secret vials, which you will fill with spit."

"Eww!" My sisters said, squirming.

"Right on," were my brothers' reactions.

I handed out the containers to each family member.

"How is spitting into this going to help me discover my race?" Brandon asked. His forehead tightened, and he looked skeptical."

"Well, you see, some guy name Grant gave our teacher lots of money to give each member of our families access to DNA testing." I switched my stance and deepened my voice. "With your spit, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we will see exactly where you came from. We will trace your lineage--"

"Lineage," Mom corrected.

"What does that mean?" Angelica asked.

"Kind of like your family line," Mom answered.

"Come on, people. Let us not waste any more time. Give me your spit, and Detective Cedella will trace your race."

***

I mailed off our saliva samples and spent the first week checking my daily email for results. I couldn't wait for our family to know where we came from. But as the days passed and no email came, I forgot about the DNA tests.

Then, two months later, the email arrived. With my detective outfit on, I poured over the results of our tests. I was disappointed that the results put us in general regions of a continent but didn't say, "Brandon, you are Japanese."

I hadn't expected the test to link me directly to biological family members. The test matched Brandon to a first cousin, and he learned he was Korean.

I contacted my biological mom and learned I was full Jamaican. My birth family didn't feel ready to unite with me, but they gave me several pages of my family line.

I finally had an identity, which made me feel valuable.

Every birthday after that, Mom made sure we celebrated our birthdays in the traditions of our origins. She helped us learn more about our race and each other's. She united our differences and celebrated our similarities.

As I learned more about our extraordinary origins, I found pride in my rainbow family. Those other kids at school only had one or two races to celebrate. Our family celebrated half of the world's races.

 

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Pride in my Family

by Stephanie Daich